The Crow
by Lynn Kroto
Summary: "Don't look, Arthur! Don't look!" When a familiar stranger visits, Arthur Kirkland is hurled from everything he thought he knew into a bloody search for justice and a past he didn't even remember he had.  Rating will DEFINITELY go up as story progresses


Chapter I

Part I

And the Shadows. My God. The Shadows.

–

The nights were rare in which Arthur Kirkland dreamed of red horses. But when they came they trampled everything. They ran through the softly lurid fields of his mind, stomping out all the grass and their manes set the trees ablaze in hot fires that could not be controlled. All the little white daises were gone and dead and soon the smoke was thick and took the place of sky. They were fearsome, familiar things, and Arthur knew they would never let him alone, as they were relentless like the damaged nights during which they came.

There was nothing they could not touch; the earth seemed shaken down to its very core and the heavens roared with pain at each hoof-beat. When they passed by, they brought hurt and pained sleep with them, and despite the Valium, those red horses just kept running and running. But then they would run out of grass, and there waiting would be a big barbed wire fence.

And despite the awful things they brought, every time they ran into it, every time those little barbs tore through their muscles and spilled their blood on that field, every time Arthur saw those red limbs mangled, he would wish they had never left. And then he would wake up in a cold sweat, a feverish condition, with something in his brain telling him _Don't look, Arthur! Don't look! _like the caw of a far off crow.

However he found himself chasing those red horses whenever he could, as much as they pained him. He would run through the fire, the smoke, he _had_ to. He knew what was waiting for them, and he was always so sure that if he could just reach that fence in time, they would stop running, and then maybe he could sleep through the night. Then it would all be over if he could just stop them from running straight into those sharp arms.

And one night he was sure he did. For there in his mind he stood before the beasts, before the fence, and though he knew they were only animals he tried to warn them about the bad things that would happen if they kept going blindly onward. The horses were incognizant to his shouts and showed no signs of letting up. They paid him no heed, and instead overpowered him and all his good intentions, and threw him into the fence.

In the split second before dreaming ended, there was a clash of red and white behind his eyes and he knew that he had failed. Arthur woke with the sheets strangled around his legs and waist where there had been wire that had tore him apart, cold chills where there had been blood washing warm over his skin, the ticking of the clock on the wall was the steady pound of horses as they plowed into him and broke all his bones, and the deep breathing of the man beside him was just like the wind that fed the fire.

Arthur exhaled, breath and hands shaking. His nightly battle was over, and again he had lost. But the spoils for the losers were not so bad. Trying to shrug away those intent black eyes and torch blown manes, he pulled the sheets away from his body and slid across the mattress to find the cool chest of the one who he knew would chase those things for him. He only put on hand on the other man's side, careful not to wake him but even that contact was enough to quell frayed nerves.

Despite every thing done to keep his bed mate undisturbed, Arthur quickly backed off when a pale arm reached behind to touch his fingers.

"I-I'm sorry I woke you," he apologized quickly, but the head of beige-blonde hair shook and its owner turned over.

"Did you have that dream again?" the voice asked, deep and concerned. It shook Arthur's bones and he smiled at the comfort of a hand squeezing his, like a reassurance of life. It almost made it impossible to lie. But Arthur was a stubborn man and the last thing he liked was someone pushing sympathy at him.

"No." Any other attempt at explaining would have made his lie worse, so he kept his mouth shut.

"You are lying to me..." A long finger tapped Arthur's nose. "I can see your lying face even in the dark." He knew it was nonsensical, but that man did have ways of knowing things. So, hoping his actions would rise where words had many times fallen, Arthur bowed his head and squeezed his eyes closed.

"They won't stop for the fence," Arthur said weakly. Hearing his own voice crack was bad enough. In the small empty silence that followed, the tocks of the clock scratched at his ears. He made mental note to get rid of that bloody thing in the morning. The hand holding his left and pulled a warm body close to him. Arthur's voice caught in his throat and he almost didn't go on, but a voice coaxed him from his fear.

"Go on, you can tell me anything you know."

"They don't stop for anything, Ivan. They ran right over me." Arms held him tightly, and for a moment it reminded him of the pressure of the horses's legs until the cool dark of the room brought him home. Large hands stroked his back and there was a constant murmur of language in his ear. He could not understand but knew the words were those of caring and adoration; ones he had heard many times before but every time they sounded different and meant everything.

"I thought the horses had stopped running, Lubov," Ivan asked, finally letting go of his native tongue. Arthur could only shake his head. His arms drifted from around his own stomach to hold onto the Russian, to carve their way around the familiar territory he had loved for so long and to hold him so close. The need for forgetting must have been plain in his motions because soon there were lips at his, cold and smooth, a perfect fit.

Like puzzle pieces they moved together, pushing closer, closer. Arthur could feel his heart pounding and aching like his chest cavity wasn't adequate space. And it felt all too good, he couldn't stop himself even though the sense of three in the morning was present. A soft tongue slipped between his lips, pulling a light moan from Arthur. The bed creaked beneath them as Ivan rolled out from the sheets to lay himself over the other, providing, Arthur would say, much better cover than those sheets had.

Those horses were now miles away, and Arthur was finally where he wanted to be. There, in that bedroom with the man he loved most, being prey to his gentle yet pleasing touch. Everything was perfect. The clock was faint in his mind and the only wind now was his own breath, labored under the lovely weight of Ivan. He kissed Arthur fully, and his lips left for just a moment, to whisper warm in his ear.

"Then don't look, Arthur."

The crow's voice in his head was now completely clear.

Arthur stopped, frozen. The crow was simply a part of his imagination, the aftermath of REM sleep, nothing more. Nothing more yet why was he hearing it again in reality where those things weren't supposed to follow him. He had not the breath to ask why Ivan had said that, and he remained helpless looking into those purple eyes that, as always, showed nothing. He could see lips moving, but he could not hear. His brain was working, trying to understand what it was about Ivan that mirrored the crow.

History. Arthur was trying to think about everything he knew of this man. They had been sleeping in the same house together for almost a year, and previous to that had been seeing one another for even longer. He had thought that he knew everything there was to know about him, but apparently not. He shuffled through his mind about Ivan, anything he could think of... Colors. Arthur was stricken still again. Red and white. The tumblers clicked into place.

Arthur had never spoken to Ivan much about the Bolsheviks. It was made clear that that part of Ivan's history needed to be left alone. But everyone knew what had had happened, at least what the books were willing to admit. It was just the personal details that were a little hard to give out. But maybe now he had some idea. He could now place why those red horses were so familiar. He was looking right at the man who had shaken the world from his doorstep.

"Arthur?" Ivan cawed at him. "Arthur you're not moving. What's wrong?" The crow was in those purple irises, and it was hard to see the man now. The blonde squirmed and wriggled sideways to slip away. It didn't feel like a dream anymore. The booms of the clock fell in step with the pounding of his heart and he could have sworn there was a draft. And it was hot air. Things were starting to catch up at a much faster pace than Arthur could run.

"I want to know. Tell me everything you did back then. All of it," Arthur demanded while scrambling away to the edge of the bed. Ivan stayed perched by the pillows, watching him with curious eyes. It unnerved Arthur to no end. Finally when Ivan did speak again, his voice held no accent and no well-known tones. It held nothing Arthur was looking for.

"It's not about what I did. It has nothing to do with me. It's about what you're living with. Don't shoot the messenger, Arthur."

"I don't– What are you talking about? I want to know what you have to do with those horses and that revo-" but a hand cut him off. Ivan tsked Arthur with a finger.

"Don't jump the gun," he cooed softly. "You might pull something. Answer me this: Do you remember what you did today? With me?" That was a silly question. Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly found himself rendered speechless when he drew a blank. Of course he remembered something as simple as that...didn't he?

"Come now," Ivan said, realizing Arthur's struggle, "surely it must be easy?" But it wasn't. The last thing Arthur could clearly recall was a beach. With soft sand and sunny skies. The only problem was, he lived in London. There were no beaches like that around.

"I was..." Arthur started, and he began to panic. Why couldn't he remember anything else? Just that beach...and then a road... Ivan smiled at him.

"It's natural you don't recall these things just yet. You're dead, Arthur. You died on I-93 a year ago in October."


End file.
